‘Probably,’ said Gerald.

‘He is a gnawing little negation, gnawing at the roots of life.’

‘But why does anybody care about him?’ cried Gerald.

‘Because they hate the ideal also, in their souls. They want to explore the sewers, and he’s the wizard rat that swims ahead.’

Still Gerald stood and stared at the blind haze of snow outside.

‘I don’t understand your terms, really,’ he said, in a flat, doomed voice. ‘But it sounds a rum sort of desire.’

‘I suppose we want the same,’ said Birkin. ‘Only we want to take a quick jump downwards, in a sort of ecstasy —